Category Archives: Blog

I was at work when I got the phone call; I had just released my last class of the day and was settling in to my desk to complete some much-needed grading.

“Hey Rachel, what’s up?”

“Hey… I think my water just broke.”

How can I describe the rush of emotions? Excitement, of course, but also surprise, confusion, and a bit of fear. Our due date wasn’t meant to be for another month, after all. He still had some growing to do. We still had some work to get our house ready for a new baby. We hadn’t even packed an overnight bag the way all the books said to.

A cop followed me on the way home; he rode my tail all the way down Tamiami as if daring me to speed. It was all I could do not to just push the pedal to the floor, devil may care, and attempt to outrun him like Tommy Vercetti in Grand Theft Auto.

Rachel wasn’t in any pain, and seeing her helped calm my nerves. Together, with her seated on absorbent pads we’d thankfully had left over from our incontinent pet rabbit, we made the 50-minute drive to the hospital triage unit. Since the baby was breech, we would need an emergency caesarian section—but apparently not too much of an emergency. Rachel’s contractions were very mild and there was time for me, while Rachel was working through some of the preliminary paperwork, to make a run to Walgreens for some much needed canker-sore medicine and to the nextdoor Publix for a sub and a Coke. We arrived at the hospital at around 1:43, were told we would go in for surgery at 7:00, and actually went in at about 8:30. C’est la vie.

We were given a fair amount of scary worst-case-scenario talk about all the things that can go wrong in a c-section. The words hovered in the air like hydrogen blimps on the verge of exploding: infection … blood loss … remove the womb … We were told that our son might have underdeveloped lungs and be unable to breathe. I tried not to let it bother me. I know they’re required to let patients know this stuff in advance, in preparation should things take a turn for the worst. None of these things would happen to Rachel or our child. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Things like that only happen to other people … to women on daytime TV melodramas or to your mom’s friend’s sister’s baby. I willed my nervousness away. We prayed together. Over my clothes, I put on a paper suit—loose fitting shirt, MC Hammer pants, hair net, silly little booties. The doctors said it was time and took Rachel away for local anesthetic. Half an hour later they came and got me.

The operation itself went faster than I had expected—after the nurse anesthetist did his thing, the actual surgery was over in a matter of minutes. I held Rachel’s hand, anxious, as she winced and gasped and told me how weird it felt: “Tugging, but no pain,” as the surgeons said. I tried my best not to imagine them fiddling about wrist-deep in my wife’s guts.

After a tense few minutes, we heard the baby—our baby—cry. It was one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard. I immediately began to laugh. I couldn’t help it. I was overjoyed. That was my son, my little David. If he could cry, he could breathe. He would be ok.

The next moments were a delirious blur of activity. I kissed Rachel, then was whisked to an adjoining room that seemed no bigger than a closet. Doctors were wiping him with cloths, sucking fluid from his mouth and nostrils with a bulb syringe, squirting ointment into his eyes. I cut the umbilical cord with a pair of scissors, trying to take in his tiny hands, his smooth, pink skin, his angry little face. In a daze, I watched when they brought him over to meet his mom, dutifully snapped a picture when instructed, then followed the doctors down a series of corridors to the NICU unit.

Wee Davey was placed under a heat lamp, given an IV, and hooked up to machines that go “bing.” The nurses (who were great—equal parts compassion and professionalism) stuck him with what seemed like dozens of needles, trying to insert tubes into tiny veins to draw blood off and put other fluids in. To distract and calm him as they worked, I dipped a pacifier into sugar water—the newborn equivalent of a lollypop. They took his weight and measurements: five pounds, three ounces, seventeen inches. His breathing, heartrate, and body temperature were stable. His blood was sludgy thick and would not come easily when the nurses needed to draw it; it would need to be thinned out. He cried and wiggled and made soft chimpanzee noises, but mostly he slept.

I wasn’t allowed to hold him that first night—was barely allowed to touch him, except to comfort him when he was already awake. Sleep was the most vital thing for him at the moment, the nurses said, as he had a lot of development to catch up on, and I oughtn’t disturb him, except at specified “touch times” when he would be awakened to take care of all his medical needs at once. So instead I watched. I stood beside his little incubator-bed and stared at him, trying without success to read my or Rachel’s features in his little wizened face. I admit I cried a little. This was my son, after all. My firstborn. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, and all that. It was—is—simply amazing.

When he cried, I kissed him and sang to him: rock and swing, hymns, nursery rhymes. In the midst of it all I thought of a song I hadn’t heard in years—perhaps not since my days as a middle-schooler racing round and round the disco-ball lit hardwood floor at Kate’s Skating Rink: Aerosmith’s power-ballad, “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.” I know the song is about a guy singing to his wife or girlfriend or whatever, but it felt super-appropriate for our situation.

Cause even when I dream of you
The sweetest dream would never do
I’d still miss you, baby
And I don’t want to miss a thing.

I spent the night ostensibly on a cot in his room, but probably only slept about half an hour in total. Most of my time was spent either restlessly watching him, talking with the nurses, or running errands between his room in the children’s hospital and Rachel’s room in the main unit where she was recovering from surgery—It would be about twelve hours before she would be well enough to come see him—right after I was able to hold him for the first time.

God is gracious—so many things that could have gone wrong didn’t, and we are thankful for a healthy son. I have no doubt that little Davey, “from his mother’s womb untimely ripped,” will grow to do mighty things.

The staff here tell us that we can expect David to remain in the NICU unit for at least a couple of weeks—maybe all the way up through our due date at the end of October. Healthy as he is, he is yet small and fragile, being premature, and he’s going to need time and care to continue to develop properly. We’ve applied for a place at the Ronald McDonald house, which would make staying up here far more convenient—there’s only room for one parent to really sleep in David’s room with him. I’m going to need to go back to work soon (perhaps Monday, but we’ll see what the weekend holds), but I plan to spend every possible moment here with him.

The problem with not blogging regularly (here we go with the metacommentary again) is that life continues to happen at the same rate as ever. As a result, events, experiences, challenges, and changes stack up alarmingly, growing fusty and gathering a thick layer of dust before actually making it online. At that point, a blog becomes little more than the equivalent of a “yearly summary of the Strnad family” Christmas newsletter—hardly the point of the thing. Thus, motivation to write for the blog wanes, and blog-worthy events continue to gather like assorted items jammed into the kitchen junk drawer, till the day one says “to heck with it,” and dumps all the contents on the table to sort through them. This is that blog post, I suppose. So it goes.

I’m headed back to school this week, with meetings and preparation before the kids arrive for their first day on Friday. Last year (2017-2018) was the best year I’ve had as a teacher, leading a film class as well as taking over AP Literature at my school. This year will likely be a little rougher, though—our school is under a new administrative team and, as the new principal is dealing with a shortage of English teachers, I’ve lost those electives. I’m disappointed (especially since I just spent a week this summer in training with the College Board AP Literature test), but have confidence of building back up the program and bringing back AP classes next year. In the meantime, I’m taking over teaching Yearbook, which ought to be fun and hectic in equal measure. It’ll help scratch my creative itch, but the scheduling involved intimidates me. Fortunately, I have several colleagues who have waded the yearbook waters before me who will be invaluable as guides.

I had intended to hammer hard on my next novel (a yet-untitled urban fantasy) this summer, but wound up diverted into short story territory instead. I’ve gotten a few pretty good ones written (if I do say so myself), and am seeking homes for them now. I’m also considering the possibility of putting together a short fiction collection—something with a Ray Bradburyesque frame story that would tie it together. I’m told that short fiction anthologies often don’t sell as well as novels (and my experience with Silent Screams seems to confirm that), but Bradbury’s trick in books like The Illustrated Man (my all-time favorite short fiction collection) and The Martian Chronicles was to add simple frame stories and call them novels. It’s business. It’s psychology. It’s sales. But if it worked for Bradbury, maybe I can make it work for me.

Similarly on the writing front, I’m gearing up to rerelease Pantheon under the Serpent and Dove label. Since Musa went out of business, Pantheon hasn’t been available online, so I’m excited to get it back out there. The rerelease involves some polish all around—a fresh edit and some brand-new pulp-inspired cover art from the mighty Emory Watts (who did all the artwork for Silent Screams). It’s been a long time coming, but I’m very excited. Here’s a rough sketch to give you an idea for what the cover is going to look like:

Cool, huh?

The church Rachel and I attended for the past several years dissolved recently when our pastor retired. The split was amicable and peaceful (praise God), but we spent several months back in church-hunting mode. We recently found one in the area to call home (praise God), with solid, Biblical teaching and a genuine sense of community and fellowship. We are blessed.

Speaking of blessings, we are expecting our first child! Rachel is due on October 30th (although I’m pushing for a Halloween baby). October is going to be a crazy month—I am in a friend’s wedding in North Carolina, I am scheduled as a guest at NecronomiCon, and our baby is due sometime around there. Add in normal life with work and such (and the added pressure of yearbook deadlines) and I’m sure I’ll be spinning like a top. So far, though, both Mom and Baby are healthy. We are extremely excited to be parents.

What else… What else?

We’ve done a fair amount of traveling and visiting this summer—visiting family in North Carolina, having family come here (as I write this, several of Rachel’s cousins from Washington State are hanging out with us for the week).

I’ve been to a few sci-fi conventions. I have a few more lined up. I’ve gotten to a point, though, where that feels fairly normal and not particularly newsworthy…

I’ve gotten really into making home-made ice cream over the past several years, but only recently leveled-up my skills to the point that I can craft my own flavors without a recipe. So far my best successes have been red-hot cinnamon flavored, and amaretto with toffee bits (currently in my freezer).

I’ve also recently enjoyed repainting and customizing toy guns to make them all brassy and steampunky. Probably I’ll begin bringing them to conventions to sell them off along with my books, as I really don’t have room to store them, but really enjoy the painting and crafting process.

I suppose that’ll do for now. I think I’ll hop on here sometime in the nearer future (hopefully) to blather at length about my hobbies—each of which could easily make a full blog post. Or maybe I won’t. I’m mysterious like that.

For me, New Years is always a time for reflection and thought—a time for me to remember the past year’s struggles and triumphs and to look ahead to dreams and goals for the future. I’m not big on New Years Resolutions (as one really has no idea what new challenges or opportunities tomorrow will bring), but for the past few years I’ve been able to meet a general goal of reading on average one book a week—sixty-five in total this year. They (whoever “they” are) say that great authors are first and foremost great readers, and although I make no pretentions to greatness in either category, isn’t that the standard to shoot for?

That said, here are a few of the notable books I’ve read over the past 365 days, with a few words on what I appreciated about them. As usual, I’ll break them into rough categories.

BEST GENERAL NONFICTION: Republocrat by Carl R. Trueman

Confession: I kind of hate politics. This isn’t to say I don’t have political opinions, but rather that I have a general distrust of most of the government and little patience for the social media name-calling that stands in the place of debate these days. I often joke that I’m just conservative enough to piss off my liberal friends, and just liberal enough to piss off my conservative friends, being sure to alienate and enrage everybody. In that sense, Trueman feels like a kindred spirit, and Republocrat like a breath of fresh air. For anyone dissatisfied with the state of American political discourse, this book can help make one make a little sense of the madness.

BEST SCI-FI: Childhood’s End by Arthur C. Clarke

I now know why Clarke is hailed as one of the all-time greatest science fiction authors. Childhood’s End is an alien invasion story with a twist… then another twist… then another twist. By the time I reached the end of the book, my jaw was on the floor. No spoilers. If you trust my opinion at all, read this book. It is fantastic, in every sense of the word.

BEST COMIC: The Superior Spider-Man by Dan Slott

The three-volume collection of Superior Spider-Man is a tour de force that ranks up with some of the best Marvel stories I’ve read. After swapping brains with Peter Parker (resulting in the death of the former spidey), Otto Octavius determines that he will take over Parker’s role as protector of the city—his own way. The resulting story of supervillain-turned-superhero involves lots of good character moments, as well as plenty of action, ranging from the Green Goblin’s dealings in the criminal underworld to time-traveling dimension-hopping madness. It’s a total hoot.

BEST HORROR: Toss-up between It by Stephen King and What the Hell Did I Just Read by David Wong

With the success of the recent movie, I suspect It wound up on a lot of people’s reading lists, but (cue hipster impersonation) I’d like to say once and for all that I began the novel before I even knew there would be a movie (starting it in 2016 and finishing it in January). Regardless of whether people are bandwagoning or not, though, this novel deserves the attention. Although the final scene of the book (which I hear was cut from the film version) was a huge disappointment, the rest of the book was a delight. King is known for his slobbering, sharp-toothed monsters, but I find he shines most in his quieter moments of character interaction. The real heart of It resides in a gentle nostalgia for the ups and downs of childhood, and a delight in the power of friendship.

As a contrast, David Wong’s gleefully immature take on the genre never fails to entertain me. What the Hell Did I Just Read is the third (and maybe best) addition to Wong’s successful John Dies at The End series, in which he blends absurd, outrageous humor with scenes of gut-wrenching terror. Imagine HP Lovecraft as a thirteen-year-old boy who has watched too many Saturday morning cartoons, and you’ll have a fairly good idea of Wong’s style. If you can tolerate the middle-school-level vulgarity, there is plenty of mind-bending fun to be found here.

BEST THEOLOGY: The Knowledge of the Holy by A.W. Tozer

The Knowledge of the Holy is a slim, unassuming little book, but it is both dense in its content and profound in its implications. Contemplating on the attributes of God, Tozer manages to say more in two or three pages than many authors say in their entire books, and I found myself needing frequent pauses while reading in order to properly digest the ideas on the pages. It’s good, rich, meaty stuff, but rather than being a mere intellectual exercise, Tozer uses the scholarly aspects to direct the readers’ hearts to worship the amazing, incomprehensible, marvelous God who has revealed Himself in creation, in the holy Scriptures, and in the person of Jesus Christ.

BEST CHILDREN’S BOOK: The Brave Little Toaster by Thomas M. Disch

I grew up on the movie The Brave Little Toaster, and it remains one of my favorite animated films. It wasn’t until this year that I learned it was initially based on a book—and immediately tracked down an audio version someone recorded online. The story wasn’t initially intended for children, serialized in Fantasy and Science Fiction, but no matter—this is a children’s classic on par and sharing its tone with Milne’s Whinnie the Pooh books. Although the movie is manic fun, the book’s humor is a bit softer, gentler, and more poignant. It’s sweet and innocent, a story I loved as an adult and intend to share with my own children one day.

So there you have it. What books did you love this past year? I’m always on the lookout for recommendations.

Here’s the good news: I am a guest author at not one, but two different science fiction conventions this October, SWFL Writer’s Showcase and NecronomiCon. Here’s the bad news: I don’t feel like an author.

There’s a tendency for artists and creators to get in a kind of funk when they haven’t been producing much. Legitimately or not, we often think of ourselves only as good as our most recent work output—I may have edited a pretty great book last year (check out Silent Screams if you haven’t yet), but… well… I haven’t had a story published in a while. Even worse, more and more when I sit down to write, I’ve been having trouble solidifying my imagination into words and getting them onto paper. I have some killer ideas for my next novel, and some fun short fiction concepts rattling around the brain-box, but haven’t had anything to share with my writing critique group for the past month or so.

Here’s where self-doubt comes in—the nagging thought that maybe I just suck at this and my previous successes were flukes. This is compounded by things like being a guest at conventions. Who the heck am I to sit on panels next to way more successful and famous people and give others writing advice?

In Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast,” Lumiere laments that “life is so unnerving for a servant who’s not serving.” I second that emotion. When I’m not actively producing, I feel… well, less somehow. There’s a weird sort of guilt, like I’m wasting time and not living up to my potential. We like to put ourselves into boxes and categorize ourselves with neat definitions. I am a painter, so I paint. I am an athlete, so I compete. I am an intellectual, so I debate.

I am an author, so I write.

I think, therefore, I am.

But what of the painter who can do no more than doodle swirly lines on her canvas? What of the athlete who, through a tragic accident, winds up confined to a wheelchair? What of the intellectual who struggles with bouts of depression or crippling headaches?

Am I still an author when I’m hitting the writer’s block wall or when I’d rather crank up Steam than my word processor? Am I still a Christian when my devotional life tanks and my prayers are empty parrot-talk? Am I still a teacher when, despite my best intentions, I don’t communicate what I want my students to learn?

Of course, the answer to all three of these is yes. Failure is a normal part of life. That doesn’t mean I quit trying, but it does mean that I can cut myself a little slack when things aren’t going so well. The fact that I’m concerned about the times I’m not doing so well helps prove that my heart is in the right place, and that I will eventually wind up back on top. The struggle isn’t what defines me, but what I do through it.

God’s grace is bigger than my sin. He will see me through, because it’s in His nature. It’s what He does.

My imagination is bigger than my writer’s block, and one day, soon, the stories will flow again. It’s in my nature. It’s what I do.

Today marks a milestone. I completed the final illustration for my children’s picture book. As I glued the last piece in place, sitting back to examine my work, I experienced a quiet glow of satisfaction. No fanfare blew, no confetti fell from the ceiling (although the floor around me was, as usual, already covered with tiny scraps of paper), and so far I have yet to receive any unsolicited calls from publishers desperate to make me a superstar. Still, it feels good just to be done with the thing. I began working on this book a full eight years ago, and it’s been a labor of love (as all art worth making must be).

The story, a simple fable about anthropomorphized talking tools, is a personal one to me, born out of a period of frustration and longing and loneliness, written with a deep sense of having been made for a purpose and a hope in things yet unseen. I’ve always been of the opinion that a story’s genre and style should, as well as possible, match the author’s message. Sometimes children’s stories say best what’s to be said.

Shortly after writing its initial draft and sketching the characters, I became interested in collage art—using scraps of old magazines to create new images. Upon encouragement from friends and family, I used this method to create the illustrations, poster-sized to maintain the level of detail I wanted each picture to have.

Looking back, I wish I’d kept a tally of how many magazines I’ve destroyed to make these illustrations, as well as how many glue sticks I’ve gone through. My estimate is that I’ve harvested colors from easily thousands of magazines, and worn at least a few hundred glue sticks down to the plastics. A conservative guess is that about 600 hours went into the collages (15 in total at about 40 hours apiece). This time was spread over nearly a decade; while my picture book waited in the background, I put out two books for adults and spent three years in grad school (during which I barely touched any other projects).

“So what are you going to do now that you’re finished?” my wife asked. I almost laughed. “You forget you’re married to the man with 1000 hobbies,” I told her. Art and writing are, for me, like the hydra: cut off one head and two more grow to take its place.

First things first: the actual story text some serious overhaul. Needless to say, I’ve grown a lot as a writer in the past ten years, and I think that some trimming and sanding and polishing are in order before this thing is ready for prime time.

I also need to learn all I can about children’s publishing. All my previous experience is in writing for adults—sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. Picture books are a whole different animal.

And, of course, there’s my other writing to attend to—more short fiction, and the ever-looming “second novel.” In the immortal words of Semisonic, “Every new beginning starts with some other beginning’s end.”

Who knows? Given the speed this project has moved at thus far, maybe I’ll be able to get this thing published and into a form people can actually read within another ten years.

Last time I had seen her, she was in middle school. Her sister and I were high school friends (same graduating class). As kids we had all gone to church and played together (I have especially fond memories of putting on puppet shows with a portable stage) but, as life has a way of sending people different directions, we hadn’t seen each other or spoken in about fifteen years.

In hindsight, it seems inevitable that when we met for the second time, it would be at the library. The library in my hometown is about the size of an average McDonalds. Although the town itself has grown considerably over the past 20 years, the library has remained in the same building it’s always occupied. Since I was there about once a week, it was inevitable that the librarians would know me. They make it a habit to greet their frequent fliers by name. It’s a bit like Cheers that way.

I was hanging out at my parents’ house for the summer vacation (one of the few real perks of being a teacher), looking for a new job, hoping for a change. Jonesing for a comic book, I swung by the library. I hadn’t been there in about a year (since I’d been living an another town), and was surprised to see this beautiful young lady– a woman I had known as a girl long ago, standing behind the counter.

Last time I had seen her, she’d been a skinny kid in a baggy rock-and-roll tee shirt. Now she was grown up, working as a librarian, and… well… cute. After a hug and the initial “long time no see” banter, I asked her what she was up to these days.

“That’s cool,” I said, trying to sound casual. “What kind of stuff do you like to write?”

She smiled. “Mostly science fiction.”

Be still, my heart.

We exchanged information, me awkwardly telling her that if she ever wanted to get together and *ahem* talk about writing some time, I’d be happy to hang out.

Then I took my books and left. That, I figured, was that. She was pretty, but what of it? Lots of girls are pretty. After all, I would not likely be in town long.The new school year was rapidly approaching, and I still had no idea where I would be teaching.

Little did I know our paths would cross again a few nights later. I was over at a friend’s home for supper and board games when she walked in. I’d had no idea she would be there. That evening, as we sat around eating Mexican food and playing Takinoko, I was more and more impressed– she was smart and funny and full of life.

As there were others who were interested in writing, we planned to meet that Sunday evening for a writers’ group. We did. It was nice, but fairly uneventful.

Later that week I was offered a job near my grandparents in South Florida. The school year was about to begin, so, without even time for a proper goodbye, I dropped a ninja smoke bomb in North Carolina and raced down to prepare my classroom and curriculum.

And that, I figured, was that.

…Which just goes to show how little I knew. That fall, I was beginning to gather stories for Silent Screams, and she was interested in contributing one. We spoke on the phone several times, then on Skype, initially to brainstorm and swap ideas but more and more just to talk. Our conversations would extend for hours.

When I was home for Christmas break, I knew I would regret it if I didn’t take the chance to ask her out. That first date, on a cold, gray day, we sat and talked over sushi and frozen yogurt for about five hours. My family made fun of me when I got home, but I didn’t care. There weren’t a lot of fireworks, no flashes of heady passion (those would come later). It was just nice to be with her, to hear her thoughts, to enjoy her company.

When I returned to Florida, we kept up contact over email and Skype; very soon we were speaking almost every night. It didn’t take long before I was head over heels in love. When I was about to go home for spring break, my grandmother jokingly asked if I planned to propose.

“Don’t be silly,” I told her. “We’ve only been dating for about three months. That’s not going to happen. That’s too fast. Normal, sane people don’t do that.”

…Which just goes to show how little I knew.

Seeing her again was better than wonderful. Where there weren’t fireworks before, this time I had enough to fill Crazy Ed’s Roadside Bargain Warehouse.

Halfway through the week, we had a conversation that began with “How do you think all this is going?” and ended with “I guess we should get married, then.” I was completely unprepared; I hadn’t even purchased a ring. I kissed her. I had no idea it was possible to be so happy.

Three months later, only about one year after that initial encounter at the library, we said our vows at the front of a full church. She wore white. I wore a suit. There was music and laughter and cake.

She is asleep in the other room as I type this.

At the risk of being redundant, I had no idea it was possible to be so happy.

I just saw that it has been nearly a year since my last blog post. Part of me is baffled by this revelation (where did the time go?), but it makes sense. The past year has been a whirlwind of activity, in which I met a girl, fell in love, got married, bought a house, moved, and edited an anthology, while still working full time and doing all those normal life things a functional adult is supposed to.

Perhaps I’ll do a more lengthy write up about my bride and the crazy unexpected beautiful way our relationship came about on another day– it is a story that would require a blog post in itself. For the moment, though, I want to announce the exciting news that, at long last, the Silent Screams anthology is going to be released.

This has been a huge undertaking and a true labor of love. I am extremely excited about this book, and cannot wait to share it with the world. The ebook comes out on Halloween– October 31st, with a print version to follow shortly after. If you read dark fiction, this is one you won’t want to miss. I can’t wait to unleash it on the world.

“Editing an anthology will be a lot of work,” they said. “It’ll take a lot of time and dedication,” they said. Did I listen? Ha!

Ha, I say!

Ok, so this whole anthology undertaking has already been a huge learning experience. The good news is that the learning ain’t over yet, but the bad news is that it’s not going to be finished as quickly as I thought it would be. For some reason I thought I would be able to finish up all my selections and do all the editing necessary within a couple of weeks at the end of November, having the book properly formatted and ready for public consumption in time for Christmas. Boy, was I wrong. Between my day job and life in general, I’ve been pretty much slammed… also I was far more optimistic about how much time the anthology would take than I had any right to be.

I have made progress. The Silent Screams submission period closed at the end of October, with a grand total of 182 submissions. I’ve read all the stories, but I still haven’t finalized my TOC– there are a couple I’m still debating over. Besides this I still have a largish chunk of actual editing to do on the stories I’ve accepted, as well as a few other details to finalize. As things stand (with December nearly upon us), there is no way the book will be finished as quickly as I would like.

I did acknowledge the possibility of this in my submission guidelines, though. It looks like we’re going to be leaning toward the “early 2016” side of things, rather than the “December 2015” projected release date. Hang on just a little while longer, folks. I have high hopes for this book, but I also don’t want to rush it. I want it to be the best it can possibly be. Here’s to January-February 2016.

I’m now almost halfway into the second month of reading for Silent Screams, with a month-and-a-half or so to go. I’ve actually done a good job so far of keeping up with the reading as stories come in. It’s slow going, but some progress is taking place. Here’s a quick rundown of statistics for you number-crunching types:

SUBMISSIONS SO FAR- 70EARLY ACCEPTANCES- 6REJECTIONS- 49MAYBES- 15

So far the anthology is about one quarter full, as far as my vision for it goes (I’m hoping for around 100,000 words, all said and done– about 20-25 stories). A quick glance at this list shows that, thus far, I’ve accepted less than one in ten of the stories I’ve read. It’s no fun to send out rejections, but I knew getting into this that it would be part of the deal. As I hoped when beginning this project, I’m learning a lot by simply doing it, and I’ve gained a lot of sympathy for others who edit anthologies and magazines. Rejections, I’ve found, can be for any number of reasons– sometimes for bad writing, of course, but more often the reasons are more subtle. Sometimes it’s simply a matter of deciding whether or not a story fits my vision for the book, and doesn’t have a lot to do with the quality of the story itself. Here are two major instructions, though, that I feel will apply to anyone submitting stories, regardless of the market he or she is submitting to. They ought to go without saying, but after reading through a lot of stories and seeing them ignored on multiple occasions, I’ll repeat them here:

1. READ THE GUIDELINES, PEOPLE
Sometimes folks send in things that offer a different interpretation on my theme than I initially had in mind. I have no problem with this– sometimes the story doesn’t fit at all with my vision, and I have to send a rejection, but on a couple of occasions I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the nuance of their work, and the different perspective they bring. Even if I ultimately can’t accept their story, I appreciate the thought they put into their submission. It shows respect for me and my time.

However, I’ve been made teeth-grittingly frustrated by a couple of authors who have no regard at all for my guidelines. These are folks that I think are simply carpet-bombing publications, hoping to get lucky. I understand this approach, but it only goes so far– at the end of the day, if your story is so far outside the realm of what I’m looking for, you’re just wasting your time, as well as mine. The worst of it is that I’ve gotten a couple of pretty cool stories this way, read all the way through them, and then realized at the end that they had nothing at all to do with my anthology.

Here’s the deal: If your story has nothing to do with the theme an editor is working with, it doesn’t matter how cool your story is. Don’t waste editors’ time with stories that aren’t what they’re looking for.

2. THE BASICS MATTER
I hate to be a stickler, but when I receive a story and it’s improperly formatted or there are basic grammar errors in the first paragraph, I’m not really inclined to think favorably of it from the start. In all honesty, I’ll probably continue reading at least a little (I’d hate to miss a gem on account of a technicality) but, depending on my mood or how tired I am after work that day, I may not.

Here’s the deal. SFWA format exists for a reason– it’s a comforting thing for editors to open a document and see all the proper information in place where they expect it to be. Authors who care enough to put their manuscripts into proper SFWA format also can often be better trusted to be decent writers, to pay attention to guidelines (see above), and all that other good stuff. To ignore the little things like proper formatting and basic grammar just makes a writer look incompetent, uncaring, and sloppy.

Editing a book is tough. I now understand why a pile of unread submissions is typically referred to as “slush.” Choosing stories sometimes feels like digging through a mountain of poo in search of gold nuggets. But oh, those gold nuggets– how they sparkle. Those can make the rest of the struggle worth it. I have a few that I already can’t wait to share with you guys.

So please, writers, keep sending me your stories. This prospector ain’t finished yet. There’s a little more than a month and a half to go– plenty of time to submit. I can’t wait to see what new chunks of gold the rest of this submission period brings my way.

Since I’m not good at blogging (and the first to admit it), there’s a temptation to meta-blog whenever I do get on here. Obviously the rare times I do update this page are the moments when it’s on my mind, and since it’s on my mind it’s what I feel like writing about. this makes for lame reading, I know.

Since my posts tend to be so few and far between, major life changes tend to take place in the interim. It seems like only a few months ago that I wrote about my move to Statesville, NC and my work as a teacher there. Well, fast-forward a little, and I’ve moved again. Now I’m living in South Florida (where, in an unexpected plot twist, I actually lived for about 5 months right after graduating college). This move is for a number of reasons, I suppose– Florida teachers, while by no means wealthy, are at least paid better than their North Carolina cohorts; I’m living near my grandparents (both maternal and paternal– collect them all!) and aunts, uncles, and cousins; and the school I’m working at seems like it will be a good fit for me. I freak myself out if I try to think too far in the future, but I’m planning on this move being at least semi-permanent, and I plan to stick around here for at least a couple of years. I’m tired of bouncing around all the time, and I would like to start putting down roots.

Of course, job hunting and moving and the start of a new school year have taken a toll on my creative energy. I have one short story I’ve been struggling with since last winter, and I need to get it finished and on paper and out into the real world. Otherwise, the bulk of my creative thought has gone into the anthology I’m editing, Silent Screams. I’m about a month into accepting submissions, and have accepted a handful of stories. My friend Emory Watts has drawn up some amazing cover art, and it is coming together nicely.

The idea for Silent Screams has been on my heart and mind for several years now. Horror writers often have an image (one we sometimes encourage) of being a particularly sick and morbid bunch, but, as I’ve mentioned before here, I’ve found the opposite to often be the case; the genre is filled with people who are kind and generous and who care deeply about others. Horror fiction, for me, is a genre of ideas; about asking dangerous “what if” questions and exploring their ramifications, of analyzing the nature of evil that lurks within each of us and holding it up for examination against what is good, and true, and pure. In some vital ways, horror is about being honest about the brokenness of the world we live in, and the best stories for me are those that inspire compassion and a willingness to see things from another person’s point of view.

Proverbs 31:8-9 says “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute.Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy (NIV).” My understanding of social justice begins with my faith– I believe people are important because they are important to God, made in His very image. Like many others, I have been pretty ill about the recent news surrounding Planned Parenthood, but this is only one example of the way in which the vulnerable are exploited in our modern age. If we remain silent in the face of modern slavery, and abortion, and genocide, and religious persecution, we are ourselves a part of the problem. We, the privileged, have a duty to speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves. My platform is the realm of speculative fiction. Perhaps I have been placed here for just such a time as this. Thus, Silent Screams.

I’m excited about this book– it’s not going to be a fun-filled romp like Pantheon, nor will it be a book for everyone (not all people are horror fans, after all), but it feels like an important and worthwhile project. I’ve seen some great stories so far, and fully expect to see more in the next several months. May the cries of the innocent no longer go unheard.